On anything.”
Sophie picked up the last letter in the box.
It was dated six months ago.
“Dear Sophie, I’m going back to school.
I know it’s late.
I know you probably won’t read this.
But if you ever do — I want you to know that your mother never stopped trying.
Not once.”
Sophie folded the letter and held it against her chest.
“I read it,” she said.
“I’m reading all of them.”
—
Six months later, Clara walked across another stage.
This time, Sophie was in the front row.
She was holding a yellow envelope — one of the old letters, framed.
When Clara looked out into the audience, Sophie stood up.
She didn’t clap.
She held the frame higher, so Clara could see the handwriting.
Clara smiled.
Not the careful smile from the first graduation — the one she wore for a stranger’s camera.
This one was real.
